


ice, death, regret

by inK_AddicTion



Category: Guardians of Childhood - Fandom, rise of the guardians
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 10:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6701926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inK_AddicTion/pseuds/inK_AddicTion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Pitch and Sandy standing / floating on an ice floe in the Arctic Circle, together or separate, Pitch feeling an emotional tug towards the night sky that he cannot explain to himself, Sandy mourning / memorializing those long dead a cosmos away.” - sylphidine.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	ice, death, regret

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sylphidine_Gallimaufry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylphidine_Gallimaufry/gifts).



The night reigns supreme, shadows hang heavy and gravid, swollen with indolence under the thick surface of the ice. Frigid waters move sluggishly beneath the slumbering ice floes _._ It is a dead land, an empty land, cold and still and silent, and those that pass through are nothing more than passengers in a graveyard of isolation. The Arctic Circle is desolate; the only light to tear ragged holes in the night is the stars, sprawled carelessly across the black velvet like diamonds from a dead man’s purse.

There are no fears here, no life for anxieties to germinate within, but there are shadows, soaked, heavy shadows that suffuse the depths in smothering blankets. The few animals that have survived Mother Nature’s harshest tests have deserted it, wise to the coming of a sickened parasite ancient with greed.

A monster lunges out of the dark, claws scrabbling and scraping at ice. With a pitiful howl it drags its frail corpse out of the water and lies there shivering like some discarded puppet with the strings cut, left to dance to its own frenetic tune. The air is harsh and sharp and scrapes, unfriendly and unwelcoming, in the throat, but the shadow sucks at it greedily, consuming it and tainting it with his presence.

The ragged bundle shivers for a little while longer, pathetic little sobs jerking and catching roughly in its shredded throat, as if it still has some _pride_ left, that low and filthy creature, laying there with its blood dried on in cracking scabs to flesh mauled ugly blue and purple, swollen and broken joints and dried tear tracks carving paths down gaunt cheeks of a once-noble face. Cracked and split nails dig convulsively into the ice, clutching on _hard_ as if it is still afraid of being ripped away back into the hell it has barely escaped from.

The Nightmares cannot chase it here, not when the stars are so bright, the ice so reflective, the dark hidden away so perfectly to allow its entrance but not theirs. The creature lifts its head, achingly slow, and peers about with feverish gold eyes that shine like suns out of a dark face. It drags its knees into its chest and curls up, the stained trailing hem of its ripped cloak disappearing into the freezing, churning black water, a spot of poison in an otherwise flawless landscape, selfish indulgent creature, ruining the lonely vista with the toxicity of its presence.

It is a cold land, a dead land, but no longer an empty one, for on the very edge of the horizon comes a glimmer of gold, a speck, a murmur, a silent, alien presence that spreads, unobserved, in glorious trails of light and love the spectre below is blind to, turning its wrecked face instead into the barren ice, blind to beauty. The monster does not notice, absorbed in its misery, obsessed with its decline, but sharp eyes catch sight of that foreign spot of darkness, like mould on fresh bread, urging to be cut out and thrown away.

The little Sandman standing on his sand cloud suddenly has to brace himself as his sand _yanks_ longingly against his control, tiny feet digging into the roiling dust, a blistering hot sandstorm whipping around him and scoring cheeks too used to its abrasive kiss to notice. Had he a voice, he would have cursed, instead, he grips the rebellious dream trails with a firm mental command, subjugating them ruthlessly back under his control. Once it steadies, he wipes his brow in a mime of irritated frustration.

His counterpart’s unexpected proximity is the only explanation for the phenomenon Sandy wishes were far less common, the magnetic pull between sand and shadow that has resulted in countless embarrassing moments throughout the ages on both sides (Pitch, stalking through the night, suddenly finding himself glued to the underside of a Dreamship, or Sandy falling right from the sky directly on top of a startled (and much aggrieved) Nightmare King).

Sandy peers cautiously over the edges of his cloud, wondering why Pitch is out at a night like this, and in such a remote place. There are no restless children to haunt, no dreams to pollute, no dark and rotten lair in which to curl up and plot his poisonous thoughts. Sandy is only passing through after having delivered dreams to the far-out ranging through the icy land himself, and can fathom no draw for Pitch here.

Pitch is a busy creature, Sandy knows, he dislikes silence, stillness, numbness too reminiscent of isolation in which a lonely mind can throw itself from the rocky and unsure cliffs of sanity into the sucking depths of the lost, whiling away frantically to produce some element of reality – no, this is not Pitch’s place, not a distraction to be found nor an element with which to ground a flighty sense. Whatever it is that has driven him here, it is dire, and not by choice.

Sandy bites his soft lip, torn by indecision. His spine still throbs with the memory of Pitch’s cruelty, his skin crawls at the thought of enduring his mocking taunts, the slick hunger of shadows lapping over flesh and sinking teeth into his soul. And yet. He glances up at the remote, dead light of the stars, feels their corpse touch on his skin, and shudders, the clamour of long-silenced voices ringing in his ears like a furious requiem, a haunting condemnation to the one who survived. Perhaps he’s not the only one who could do with a distraction tonight.

Hoping Pitch will notice him before the dilemma of somehow announcing himself without a voice while the other’s eyes are still closed arises, Sandy descends slowly, cautiously calling up his whip and coiling it over his arm. He may have decided to show some leniency tonight, but the bitter memory of their battle five years prior is still etched into his restless dreams, and he won’t be caught off guard again.

He lands without a sound on the ice, moving closer in gentle, floaty hops, the whip dragging behind him, ready to spring at a moment’s notice. Once he gets close enough, though, he stops, laden with a curious pity and a striking sense of horror.

Pitch is still shivering, hugging his knees like a child and dripping with water. His shadows splay limply around him, not even having the strength to rub and kiss his form as they so love to do, the form so broken, bruised, and battered Sandy winces to see it. A piteous thing, shrunken in its degeneration, bony wrists and harsh angles are blurred by the erasers of exhaustion and regret. Like a spider curling in on itself, his lanky legs knot into a fist, but his eyes are sliding open, for half a moment still with peace, until he ignites in rage upon seeing the other.

“ _Sandman.”_ Never has Sandy’s title sounded so venomous, so disgusting to the ear as if to cause physical nausea, and Pitch’s black lip curls over crooked yellow teeth, though broken he is haughty with affronted revulsion. The pose is exaggerated, Sandy can tell, Pitch is caught off guard and embarrassed at having been spotted unawares to him.

Sandy forces a small smile and holds up his hands to show he is not there to fight. Pitch flinches back, hunching in preparation for a blow, and Sandy’s glow dims, smile turning down at the corners into more of a grimace.

He knows Pitch fears him – finds it more amusing than worrying, but he does not like seeing its evidence, not when Pitch is so noticeably powerless and Sandy is not clouded by the heat of battle, his blood quickened to allow him to ignore how Pitch bleeds. He does not like Pitch’s belief that Sandy is so low as to attack him while he is weak.

“Come to admire your work, I suppose?” Pitch spits, “Look at me, Sandman, go on, I’m sure it pleases you, doesn’t it?”

Slowly, he labours into a sitting position, long legs torn and mangled by the torments of his nightmares, stretched out beside him. He is even leaner than before, gaunt, joints swollen and bruised skin stretched taut, he still somehow manages an element of captivation, perhaps in the smoky glitter of his eyes as he raises his proud head, sunken into bored holes into his face, the feral cruelty that thrums from his aura, spreads out poison fumes of negativity and anguish, promising thrills beyond measure but daring, daring, _are you strong enough to take it? Are you fool enough to pursue it?_ Pitch spreads shaking thin arms wide, inviting the Sandman to gaze upon his ruin, the shredded shadow robe, the mutilated flesh, the mocking little smirk, the flagrant madness.

“How long has it been?” Pitch purrs, and how like Pitch, Sandy thinks idly, to find a way to punish Sandy even with the results of Pitch’s own mistakes. Surely Pitch knows it’s no pleasure to Sandy to see him like this. “Months, perhaps? Look what they’ve made of me. I’ll give credit where its due,” his arms return to his side, too weak to stay raised for long, and the arch of his neck tilts, makes his next words derisively intimate, flaming gallowglass eyes hooding, lips quirking into his familiar smirk at Sandy’s discomfort, “your sand certainly knows what it’s doing.”

 _It was nightmare sand, nothing of mine,_ he thinks irritably. Sandy crosses his arms and taps his foot impatiently. He isn’t really in the mood for Pitch’s theatrics. Above his head, images slide to life, and he has to repeat them several times before Pitch’s squint clears from confusion into shock.

“Five years!?” he sputters, and for a brief moment his mask slips before he regains himself. What is revealed in that sharp moment catches like briar thorns in something soft in Sandy, and abruptly he has had enough of Pitch’s sniping, has had enough of this intrusive feeling that makes him feel like Pitch needs less subduing and more care, a dog kicked and beaten and muzzled, but Pitch is no dog, he is a Nightmare, and there is no kindness or softness in them. The only way to corral them is by brute force. There is no such thing as gently guiding a nightmare, only dominance, brutality, and pain. Pitch respects Sandy, because he knows Sandy is capable of hurting him far more than Sandy would ever want to, but even that meagre respect is not enough to shield him from an arrow in the back.

_What a lonely existence, to be so at odds with the world._

Pity stirs Sandy again, and he shakes his head at whatever Pitch intends to say next and decisively sits down on the ice beside him. Pitch jerks and snarls some furious epithet at him, but resolutely Sandy ignores him, and looks up.

The stars are remote, cold bastions, and he feels their light like the ghost of a memory, brushing kisses over the softness of his wrists, his chubby throat. He shudders, as if taken by cold, although heat radiates from his body so strongly that he is actually creating a small puddle of meltwater, and Sandy has to pretend to not see Pitch subtly leaning towards him, unable to fight off the cold in his weakness.

It is a cruel thing, to gaze at the empty stars. Silently, they glitter, but by the time the light reaches Sandy’s skin he can feel the death in it, as if he has turned his head too quickly and caught the last wave of a dead man, immortalised in a soft photograph only Sandy is capable of deciphering. The others do not understand that he feels the difference of starlight, _deathlight,_ where there should be brightness, warmth, a current of a powerful mind ticking through the dreams it has amassed, there is only emptiness, and silence, and Sandy.

_There will only be fear, and darkness…and me._

Bitterly, he huffs something that might have been a silent laugh. Pitch is watching him out of the corner of his eye, suspicious glitter, keen predator trying to pick apart this bizarre new behaviour, trying to uncover a weakness to use against Sandy. It all makes Sandy feel so very tired.

_Once, he did not look at me, and think of battle, and only of battle. Once…_

The thought is so depressing that he heaves a great sigh, disturbing Pitch and making him flinch again. Sandy does not feel well. He feels at odds with himself, mired in a deep remembrance uncharacteristic to his sunny, outgoing personality, a numbing greyness that dares him to _look up,_ and keep looking, familiarising himself with old faces, old memories, old lives long lost to ages and a nightmare’s hunger.

_Dominance, brutality, and pain._

But once… Once, Pitch had known more, once…

“The stars are bright tonight.” Pitch’s dark voice splits the silence, and Sandy would have scowled if he could break his apathy, because _trailing comets,_ would Pitch never learn to be silent?

He would not be Pitch if he does, he muses, a little amused, then Sandy would surely know the darkness has broken him, because heavens forfend that there ever be a moment Pitch isn’t _filling with noise._

Still, it seems a peace-offering enough, so Sandy nods, because he knows Pitch hates to be ignored, and the last time Sandy didn’t take enough notice of him, he ended up with an arrow in the back. Carefully, he glances at him, but seeing that Pitch’s attention isn’t focused on him, he affords himself a stare, smiling at what he sees, a secretive, knowing little smile that aches with the force of unshared knowledge.

Pitch still has his knees tucked to his chest, arms looped around them and pointed chin resting on the knobbly bone, but his witchfire eyes look up, to the distant points of the absent stars, and on his face there is such a thirsty look of longing, reflected in his eyes by the shimmer of the celestial lights, that it seems almost, if Sandy could bring himself to ignore the danger that hums in his presence, the shadows that stain him, _familiar._

Sandy is an indulgent creature of wishes and dreams, so he allows himself the whimsy, pillows his cheek on a soft hand and simply observes the other, ruminating quietly to himself that this is the first time in thousands of years he has been permitted to see Pitch unguarded, desperate eyes roving the stars as if they will unfurl like a map, pointing him to the answers of questions he doesn’t know how to ask, that scream voiceless in a mind driven long mad by hatred and poison, the last echoes of laughter and light that linger, dusty there, kept only to make the shadows around it darker and more hateful.

In that moment, Sandy is possessed of a wild desire to reach out to him then, the magnetic pull of their powers, rushing together like a current whispering at their sides, soft crackles of electric that spiral silver sand for half an instant before it fades gold or black. He wonders what they could do together, if by some feat of mind, Pitch’s hatred and Sandy’s distrust could be put aside, thousands of years of fighting, how they could _rule,_ Kings both, of Dream and Nightmare…

He shakes his head, tearing free those dangerous thoughts – thoughts of an old race’s greed that still haunts him. The stars, his kin, were undoubtedly greedy creatures, glutting themselves on the best, the brightest of dreams, pearls amid the pig trough of human minds, softly fleshed and wickedly spoken, indolent and yet luxuriously lovely. To be amongst stars was to lose oneself, to give up to their control the entirety of mind and thought, and though Sandy has put the hungers of the past behind him it never gets any easier, forcefully denying himself on his rounds spreading dreams – instead of gifting the ungrateful young of the world magical fantasies spurred by a vision so immense it has seen wonders beyond this planet, an imagination beyond the simple dull ideas of humans, like a lake flower, beautiful so long as one doesn’t peer beneath to the muddy and confused depths, he could _take,_ and _take,_ until they are broken, dreamless, and there is nothing left for him to feed on.

But doing so would not only be profoundly wrong, but a death sentence, and Sandy loves humans, loves children, loves them so greatly and deeply he pledges himself eternally to their furtherance, for what is a better purpose than the nurturing of young minds, watching them bud and blossom and develop and grow? It is the reason for his existence, his justification to the gravestones in the sky staring blindly down at him with a corpse’s judgement, why he, Sandy, survived Pitch’s rampage, not any other, anyone _different,_ anyone _more._

 _Guilt._ Of them both, it’s a bitter irony that Sandy is the only one with the memory to be tormented by guilt, even though he knows, has been told countless times that it simply _isn’t_ his fault that he was unable to save them, is the last one left, and yet their murderer sits innocently beside him, the fog of ignorance a blessing. Perhaps it is better this way, any more loathing, any more hatred within himself, and Pitch could not cope. Perhaps it is to protect his fragile mind – but it still feels so very lonely, sat beside him, with his solitary memories of a bygone age he shared once with someone who had Pitch’s face but not his coal black heart.

 _Ignorance, is not so much bliss, but necessity, and a kindness I suppose I don’t deserve._ Someone needs to preserve the aching memory of them, he thinks, and what better than the last, silent, dust-dragged, shadow-stained star?

Pitch shifts. “That star is so clear.” He points. Sandy can see the glittering reflection of them in Pitch’s eyes, sees him stare at them hungrily, as if he longs to be up there again, consuming what light is left in the hope it will illuminate the shadows of his past. It is a pointless endeavour, it always was, but Sandy thinks he understands the Nightmare King’s furious hunger a little better now. Had some part of Pitch Black even then hoped that with each star he devoured, each light he snuffed, it would burn away a little more of his shadow, some isolated, screaming part of the man he had once been scheming to be set free?

 _Don’t be ridiculous,_ Sandy scolds himself, _he was mindless then, and anything left of who he was is long eclipsed now._

 _Tantri._ He speaks directly into Pitch’s mind, with neither sound nor voice, implanting simply a thought alien to Pitch’s mind. It leaves an echo, a shimmer, like the chime of long-gone bells and swish of now-decayed silks. To a human, it would destroy them, but Pitch has always been strong enough to take what Sandy can throw at him, even if he doesn’t believe he can. That illusion suits Sandy, makes Pitch warier of fighting him, so he lets Pitch continue to believe it and hopes one day it will no longer be necessary.

“What?” Pitch’s eyes fly wide, and he stares for a moment, before shaking his head and trying to make sense of the word. Is he hearing things, now? Well, more things than usual? Pitch is used to voices in his head, but they aren’t usually the type to whisper in soft, inviting voices that linger on the tongue like the taste of crème and honey apples, sleepy _hssh_ of the waves and plump pillows. There is only one who could skilfully implant such a twofold bizarre and wonderful sensation, but Pitch does not know why, after all these years, the Sandman has decided to use his voice, loud enough in its thunder to wreck the mind of his precious dreamers. “What did you say?”  
A pause. Sandy is not looking at him, he is looking up, something distant and removed on his soft features, alien on such a kind face. _Their name was Tantri,_ he repeats, and Pitch shudders as the sentence echoes.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” sniffs Pitch, “It’s just a flaming ball of gas, it has no name other than what humans give it.”

_Why this, old man? Why break your silence for this?_

Sandy remains silent, eyes lowered, but Pitch’s curiosity is piqued by this new behaviour, and perhaps a little bit enticed by the sound of that rare voice, just the slightest bit lonely and a touch desperate enough to provoke further conversation. “That one,” he points out a random star, arm straight and confident like an arrow, “What do you call that one, then?”

Sandy follows the direction he is pointing with his eyes, and names quickly, _Koyla._

“And that one?”

_Antigra._

“Do you have your silly little names for all of them, Sandman?” Pitch gloats. “Well, what of that one?” He points out a large, pulsing star, and without pause Sandy rattles, _Chandra!_

“Hah!” exclaims Pitch triumphantly, “That one is Betelgeuse. You’re just making them up!”

Sandy lowers his eyes with a sad little smile that abruptly infuriates Pitch. It makes him feel as if he knows nothing, as if Sandy is making fun of his cluelessness, refusing to let him in on a old joke.

“Even the humans don’t call them such silly names! You’re senile, old man, next you’re going to tell me you visit them, and have tea! You’re nothing more than a stupid little dreamweaver who doesn’t know when to give up. See, your starry friends, twinkling above!” He baits with a cruel laugh, “Tell me, where were they when you fell last Easter, _to me?_ Oh, that’s right. Inanimate. _Dead.”_

He pauses for effect, surveys with satisfaction the look on Sandy’s face, beautifully horrified, soft features tormented.

“Do you take me for a fool, Sandy? We both know why you _really_ lie, isn’t it?” He coaches his voice, softer, crueller, pushing that shine in Sandy’s eyes, “It must be so isolating, mustn’t it, when no one understands you. Tell me, when do those Guardians stop to ever listen to what _you_ have to say? They don’t. How _alone_ you must feel, because it’s always _too much bother_ to understand what vague, nonsensical thing you’re trying to say. They don’t care, really, they’re _just using you,_ and look at you, pathetic desperate thing, _letting_ them, because you’re lonely enough that you’ll talk to the stars themselves, and imagine they’ll answer you! Why, little man, they call _me_ mad, but I think we both know who is the broken one here!”

Pitch pauses, for during his gloating speech, Sandy has started to cry. Thick, fat tears roll down his soft cheeks, and his round shoulders jerk in soundless hiccups. His tiny hands ball into fists that scrub his downy cheeks, and he rocks, painting a picture so solitary and lost, a tiny little cherub with his wings savagely torn from him, though they both know Sandy is nothing so innocent or pure.

It… does not feel as good as Pitch thought it would. In fact, it makes him feel rather uncomfortable, and he feels a pang of regret, wishing somehow that he could grab the words and shove them back inside that venomous place inside.

He does not understand. He _hates_ the Sandman, he should be ecstatic with glee, pushing the weakness until the Sandman is completely undone, is broken, but Pitch has stumbled at the first hurdle.

_When do they stop to ever listen to what you have to say? How alone you must feel. Look at you, pathetic desperate thing, letting them, because you’re lonely enough that you’ll talk to the stars themselves, and imagine they’ll answer you!_

Shame pricks Pitch, unfamiliar and hated, and he feels his cheeks flush an ugly shade of humiliation. Too close to home it hits, and suddenly it seems ungrateful in the face of Sandy’s unexpected earlier mercy, after all, Sandy could have chosen to chase him away back to his nightmares. Pitch shrinks in on himself, not understanding this weakness, fearing it, hating it, not knowing what to do to purge it from himself, to rectify the sadness that has gripped the Sandman, the aching pain Pitch knows too well.

He hugs his knees to his chest and watches, feeling awful, feeling guilty, feeling pinned by the glares of the night sky that calls to him in ways he does not like – an entire universe of shadow, and never has Pitch stepped beyond the boundaries of this earth in living memory.

Impulsively, in alarm, in fear, he shouts, “I hate you! _I hate you!”_ to forestall this weakness, a child protesting against some immovable and misunderstood force, but Sandy, ignorant of the indecision gripping Pitch, is only offered the words Pitch lets himself admit.

Sandy hiccups in misery. _You didn’t once!_ It is a longing cry, held captive in thought, and Pitch snarls at it.

“Once! Once! Listen to you. If you’re the only one with these airy memories, how did you even know it was real? How could you possibly know that I was anything-” _different, more, alive,_ “less!?”

He’s on his feet, pacing, driven to madness by the blank empty sky, pushing, questioning, unearthing dark and ugly things, _feelings_ best left buried. “You’re mad! You’re mad – it’s the only explanation! I’ve always been this, you’re nothing more than the deluded-! _Whatever we once were, we are no longer!_ ” He breaks off and stands there shivering, arms folded across his stomach like he wants to cage himself in, the mind moving too fast to stay behind its safe barriers.

 _You didn’t once,_ Sandy repeats, rises, moves to Pitch gently. The past aches jaggedly in his chest suspiciously like heartbreak but he refuses to acknowledge it, not here, not now, not with Pitch’s scar emblazoned on his back and Sandy’s negligence blossoming in bruises and starvation on Pitch’s abused body. Pitch’s nails sharpened into claws are digging into his flesh, splitting it open like dark fruit, and tarry blood wells up, drips turgid and stains the pure ice. Sandy reaches to tease them apart, soothe the wounds Pitch gives himself in his miserable confusion, but before he can reach him Pitch flinches back in terror, teeth bared as if he expects an attack.

Sandy stares at him, immeasurably hurt although he knows that he cannot expect anything different, and Pitch quails from him, shaking his head, face paling to the colour of sour milk. Sandman does not look angry, he doesn’t look fierce, or hateful, or even particularly threatening, he looks _concerned,_ afraid, and Pitch can feel the subtle fragrance of anxiety that hits him like a punch; yes, Sandy is worried, Sandy is worried for _Pitch_ and no one is ever worried for Pitch, _it is simply not done_. He doesn’t know how to react, cast suddenly into a mystifying game where all the familiar rules have been swept away by an amused hand, by the coldness of the dead stars turning above and the nostalgia of the past, and Pitch cannot keep up.

And so Pitch does what he has always done, when he doesn’t understand, when he is afraid, when he is confronted with something that cannot be destroyed or overcome or ignored - he runs.

 _Wait-!_ Sandy cries, but Pitch is wheeling about and sprinting, skidding and slipping off the ice floe and crashing into the frigid water. Sandy stumbles after him and peers down into the churning murk, but there is nothing but darkness, and memories of what-once-was and might-have-beens.

 _Pitch?_ He shouts, nonetheless, insofar as he is able, _Pitch? Are you there?_

An empty maelstrom of savage black glowers back, reflecting the pale face of the one who never deserved to survive, the restless, sleepless eyes of that golden ghost haunt him, surrounded by the flaming corpses of his kin, he turns his back to the stars and looks into the shadow.

Resigning himself to solitude, Sandy sits, drawing idle patterns in the snow. _If you’re the only one who remembers, how do you know it was real at all!_ Pitch’s words echo harshly in his mind and he sighs.

 _Because it has to be,_ he thinks, and looks up, traces familiar shines long dead, tries to recognise old faces that have long since slipped away into the blur of time.

_If no one is there to hear the last songs of the stars, do they sing at all?_


End file.
